Stiches
by SpraceJunkie
Summary: He'd lost many, many things before in his life, but nothing had hurt quite like this. Angsty Sprace, modern AU.


He'd lost many, many things before in his life, but nothing had hurt quite like this. His family didn't want him, several boyfriends he'd liked had left, and he'd thought he'd known how bad life could hurt. He'd thought things were getting better, thought that things were looking up. Maybe even that he wouldn't have to feel pain like that anymore. But the words Race had spat at him had felt like a physical pain, like somebody was holding a knife to his skin, carving it deeper and deeper with every insult, every truth. That was, in a way, the most painful part. Every single thing Race said, every pointed out mistake and markedly specific shortcoming, everything. They were all true, and it hurt to know that at least part of the pain was his own fault.

And then Race had stood there, watching, crying his own tears, but not understanding. He didn't understand, he never had, and he'd still stood there, not even moving, watching Spot collapse. And it had been a collapse, his knees almost giving out, leaning backwards for support on the counter. And when Race had finally left, the door slamming shut, he'd given up trying to stay composed and he'd fallen to the ground, the pain of losing Race almost crippling. He'd sat on the floor the their- no, his -kitchen, begging Race to come back, to come back and take away the pain he'd helped to ease so long ago, but knowing he wouldn't. Race was gone.

He'd liked Race, maybe even loved him. From the first time they'd met, he'd liked him. He was drawn to the quirky Italian, and he'd never even considered living by his prior motto around Race. Before Race, after being hurt so many times, he'd stopped getting close to people. No more boyfriends, no more family, no more friends who got too close. Just him, that all he needed. Yet when Race came along, all that dissolved, and he never even considered that Race would hurt him. Everything had felt so right, like life would last forever in the happy place that they started out in, that had been living in until only a few months ago. He'd thought Race was the one for him, the one that would fix everything wrong with him. He hadn't thought Race would give up on him, get fed up with him, leave him behind. He wasn't as nice, as sweet and good and perfect as Spot had thought. Not at all.

In his irrational state of mind, he began to blame Race for everything. For the depression he'd worked so hard to fight off, the depression he'd beaten. Beaten for _him_ , for _Race_. He'd worked so hard to get over everything, to clean up his act, to stop the drinking and fighting, and he'd gotten much better. And all it took was one mistake too many, and Race had left, hurting him worse than anybody ever had before. All his fault, all Race's fault, and now he was back in that painful state he'd lived in for so long, that he'd worked long and hard to get out of. It hurt, it hurt worse than anything.

And then he'd gone back, back to the other parts of his old life, trying, just like he had for so long, to drown out the pain. Trying to fix what was wrong with himself, knowing it wouldn't work, trying harder, digging himself in deeper and deeper, back into the cycle that had almost destroyed him before, now trying to destroy himself. Fighting fights he knew he wouldn't be able to win, getting hurt, fighting again, drinking the physical pain away, trying, trying night after night, just to get rid of the pain Race had left him filled to the top with.

The cycle ate away at him, getting worse and worse, until he finally ended up in the hospital. Drunk as hell, bleeding like crazy, waiting for somebody to fix him. To fix the bleeding, to fix the dulled pain radiating from the cut under his eye, from the probably broken knuckles. Everything was going to hell, everything hurt, and he couldn't do anything about it at all. He could answer the questions, watch the needle numb his flesh, watch the thread get pulled tight in his cut. He could pretend that he let a bar fight get out of hand, that nothing was really wrong in his life, but he couldn't change the fact that he knew everything was wrong. That he wanted nothing more than for Race to come back into his life and fix it again, to get rid of the depression and make him clean up his act, to fix the broken mess that Spot Conlon had become.

But he knew. Deep down, he knew. He could beg, ask all he wanted, but Race wasn't coming back. He'd screwed up too bad, too many times. It was his fault, it was Race's fault, it was fate's fault. It didn't matter who's fault it was, it was over. The pain was back, and it was here to stay. And there wasn't anything he could do. He closed his eyes, stopped watching the needle and thread go in and out, in and out. Let go of the thoughts of Race and focused in. It didn't matter he didn't know who to blame. Somebody was going to pay. It didn't matter how many times he ended up back here, as long as the pain was there and present and not going away, no matter how many times he had to get drunk and provoke somebody, this fight and this real, actual, physical pain helped. It dulled the emotions. If stitches were the only thing that made it stopped, then stitches it would be. No matter how many times it took.

 **I was listening to Stitches by Shawn Mendes, and this happened. I also posted it to Tumblr and AO3, and I'm quite proud of the way this turned out.**


End file.
